


tradition

by bleakmidwinter



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Domestic, Falling In Love, Human Traditions, Kissing, M/M, Over the Years, an angel and demon walk into a bar, and get drunk as fuck, and sometimes they realize they like each other, aziraphale (pov), time jumps
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-12
Updated: 2019-06-12
Packaged: 2020-05-02 06:01:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,561
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19193155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bleakmidwinter/pseuds/bleakmidwinter
Summary: Crowley introduces Aziraphale to a couple human traditions, and over the years Aziraphale realizes he's in love.





	tradition

December 25, 1770.

 

“Merry Christmas,” comes a lurking voice from the alleyway Aziraphale is passing by. A voice all encompassing in its flagrant familiarity. 

 

Aziraphale can rarely stop himself from the relief that washes over him whenever Crowley makes these surprise appearances; unfortunately, he knows himself well enough to know it shows in his face. Today Crowley seems to be sporting an all black, colonial gentleman garb, with a waistcoat that stops just above his hips, and red buttons all the way around. 

 

“May I ask what the hell you’re doing in Boston? It’s 1770.” 

 

After glancing around for any prying eyes, Aziraphale shuffles into the alleyway. In the tight space, their knees barely touch.

 

“The Boston Massacre was months ago, Crowley. As for the repercussions, I’ve been successfully avoiding them. I’m only here for their clam chowder.” 

 

“Ah, you and your seafood.”

 

“Clam Chowder is more than just seafood, it’s a  _ delicacy! _ ” 

 

“That’s what you say.” Crowley smirks, and even shrouded in darkness Aziraphale can make out the pearly white sneer. He’s joking of course; he loves to tease. 

 

They stare at each other for a while in the way that they always have. Crowley with his serpent’s eyes soft behind those black oval glasses, grin wide. And Aziraphale, with the corners of his lips twitching upwards, and his gaze unguarded. 

 

Aziraphale suddenly feels a tickle in his nose. He swerves around completely to sneeze into his elbow. Once, twice, and finally a third time.

 

“Bless you,” Crowley says smugly, knowing full well, the irony of the statement. 

 

Aziraphale’s nose scrunches up as he feels specks of something land on his face. 

 

“Snow,” Crowley helpfully adds.

 

_ Oh it is snow, isn’t it? _ Aziraphale smiles widely and holds out a hand as the snow begins to fall in heavier, coating his hand in white specks. “Oh it’s lovely.”

 

“A Christmas miracle, one might say.”   
  


“You know I didn’t do this.”

 

“Yeah, but you can take credit.” 

 

Aziraphale huffs, breath white from the cold. “This was actually Jegudiel’s idea. He thought snow would be good ammunition to keep humans inside to encourage progress rather than  _ field-frolicking _ as the home office put it, but instead they made snow angels and fought with snowballs. He was the laughingstock of Heaven for weeks, as rumor goes.”

  
“Classic humans,” Crowley drawls. “I’ll bet it drove the home office raving. Walk?”

 

Aziraphale nods, following Crowley into the already snowy streets of Boston. His eyes rest on the horses and carriages riding by. Crowley’s voice remains close to his ear.

 

“Last time I saw you, you were thinking about opening up a bookshop.”

 

“Oh, it’s a pipe dream, I’m afraid.”   
  


Crowley’s brows shoot up to his hairline, and he gives an abrupt, incredulous, laugh. “Why in the world would it be a  _ pipe dream _ , angel?” 

 

Aziraphale sighs. “I’ve got work to do. The last thing I need is a business on top of all those responsibilities. Oh, don’t look at me like that. I could still do it, I just need to give it some thought.”

  
“Another few decades of thought? The apocalypse will happen before you’ve decided.” 

 

Crowley gestures to a large bandstand in an empty park. Aziraphale follows him like a shadow as they make their way across the street. The snow is beginning to feel frightfully cold on his skin, but somehow he can’t bring himself to mind. 

 

“That’s centuries away, Crowley,” Aziraphale reminds as Crowley gets comfortable on the bench. He sits down when Crowley is finished adjusting himself and his legs to his usual odd proportions. 

 

“Do you remember the last Christmas we spent together?” Crowley asks. 

 

“Yes, my that was a long time ago. Joseph and Mary were so very generous, as it seemed. She split the only loaf of bread for us!”

 

“Dunno where she got that loaf from, if I’m being honest. I thought was a victim of poverty.” 

 

“Oh, that was Gabriel. He said she would probably be hungry after birthing the son of God.” 

 

“We’re the ones who ended up taking the food from her though.” Crowley laughs. “Does archangel Gabriel know ‘bout that one?”

 

“No, and he never will.” 

 

“Just like he won’t know about the flaming sword?”

 

Aziraphale stiffens, and turns to stare Crowley down assertively, but Crowley has never been phased by an expression or a threat, not from him. 

 

The angel softens. “You’re too hard on me, Crowley.”

 

Crowley nearly shrieks. “ _ Too hard on you?! _ I’m a demon!”   
  


“But, you’re also – ” Azriphale knows he has a point to make, but he doesn’t know what he wants to say. His words are caught in throat, and he stumbles to finish his sentence.

 

Surely, he can’t say friend. Crowley is  _ not _ his friend. 

 

For once, Crowley doesn’t tease him, or call him out for his lapse of proper diction. He scoots an inch closer, as if he means to whisper something important. Yet, there is no one around to hear them either way. 

 

“Christmas has changed a lot over the years you know.”

 

“Oh?” Aziraphale says shakily, and somehow he’s perspiring in below freezing weather. He tugs lightly at his tight collar, guessing it must be all this heavy layering. 

 

“Yeah, traditions and all that.”

 

“I haven’t noticed much of a change lately.” 

 

“Presents?”

 

“The three wise men started presents, Crowley. You know that. Lovely fellows remember?”   
  


“Eh, they were alright. Smelled a bit. Don’t judge me, you know it’s true. But what I mean is that families are giving each other more gifts lately. Materialism’s through the roof! Doesn’t that go against your ecclesiastical values?”

 

“Not  _ my  _ values. I’ve never minded a little gift here or there. It’s Gabriel who hates it. I think he was rather peeved he never received a gift from the three wise men.” Aziraphale shifts in place, coping with Crowley’s scrutiny. 

 

“Course Gabriel would, the prick. Not like he popped the baby out.”

 

Aziraphale feels guilty for letting out a barking laugh at that. Crowley’s smirk just grows wider.   
  


“I’m sure God must have approved his suggestions, meaning the relinquishment of material items is a part of her ineffable plan,” Aziraphale eventually says.   
  


“Plan, shman,” Crowley grumbles, and somehow a flask is in his hand and he’s downing it like a man who has no issue with getting completely, and utterly, battered. 

 

“How about mistletoe. You heard of that, angel?” Aziraphale nods, and Crowley continues, his glasses off. Aziraphale’s not sure when he took them off. He barely notices those yellow eyes anymore. They’re so familiar. “Do you know about the tradition?” 

 

“No,” he answers innocently, because he doesn’t.

 

“A tradition these people invented. No angelical or demonical interferences. Pure human disposition.” Crowley is seemly closer than he had been before. Aziraphale doesn’t budge, but stares back at him with wide curious eyes. 

 

Crowley winks. “Look up.” 

 

Aziraphale does. A beautiful green plant hangs above them, with white buds speckled throughout it. There is a bright red bow tied at the tip of it. It blows lightly in the wind coming in from the still present snowfall. Mistletoe is lovely, isn’t it, he thinks. 

 

When he looks back down, he’s met with lips against his own, and a hand on his cheek to keep him steady. His body and brain are frozen in shock until Crowley pulls away. 

 

“Apparently,” Crowley says, cleaning his glasses before putting them back on. “If you don’t kiss under the mistletoe, it’s bad luck.”

 

He looks back up at Aziraphale who is still unable to muster a thought or move a muscle.

 

“You wouldn’t want bad luck would you?” 

 

Crowley gives him the opportunity to answer without thinking. He takes it.

 

“No, of course not,” he says in a rushed whisper.

 

“Good.” Crowley stands and shoots him a parting glance, before disappearing into the snowy night, sauntering off the way they came. 

 

Aziraphale is left paralyzed on a cold bench in central Boston, wondering all at once why such a simple gesture had sent his head tumbling all sorts of ways. 

 

Best not to think about it again, he decides. 

 

* * *

 

December 31, 1956. 

 

Near Midnight.

 

“What are you doing wallowing in your own self pity without me? You know I  _ love  _ to wallow,” Crowley whines, squeezing into the barstool beside Aziraphale’s. 

 

Aziraphale smiles bashfully at the welcome surprise, a blush creeping to his cheeks no doubt. Crowley is in a pinstriped hat, and suit, pitch black with gray stripes. He orders a martini. 

 

“What drink you on?” 

 

“Third, I’m afraid.”

 

“ _ Hah! _ ” 

 

Crowley is acting drunk himself, but he insists that this is his first drink of the day, downing the glass with ease, and asking for another the second it’s empty. 

 

It hasn’t been long since the bombing in the church. Aziraphale opens his mouth to speak, say something to show his gratitude for saving the books, but he knows it would only irritate Crowley. He’d thanked him enough that night, he shouldn’t be repetitive. 

 

He’s also never been good at subject starters. 

 

“You haven’t called lately,” Crowley states. 

 

Aziraphale’s breath shortens. “I’m not obligated to call you, Crowley. You are my advisary after all.” Crowley’s lip curls upwards at this and he stumbles to correct himself, instantly regretful. “You know I’ve been busy. I thought  _ you _ might call if you needed something.”

 

“I wanted to go have dinner with you for New Year’s Eve. Took me a while to find you. You’re not in your usual pub, or cafe.” 

 

“Nothing wrong with a change,” Aziraphale says, dabbing his handkerchief on his lips. 

 

“Want to go back to my place?” Crowley asks. 

 

Aziraphale freezes, instantly creating multiple reasons this could be a scheme of sorts. Crowley adores his schemes, but it’s New Year’s Eve, and the level of trust between them has become significantly larger than it’s ever been. He has no real reason to say no. 

 

In as chipper a tone as he can muster, Aziraphale answers.

 

“By all means!”   
  


Crowley smirks, pays the bartender, and Aziraphale makes himself comfortable in the passenger seat of his demon friend’s Bentley. It always held the smell of smoke and cologne. 

 

“We can have a little celebration if you like,” Crowley says when they’re on the road, loud singing coming from the CD player. “We still have about fifteen minutes until midnight. I can break out the cheese.”   
  


“Did you get Havarti?” Aziraphale can’t contain his excitement.

 

“You bet.” Crowley is grinning as he takes a sharp turn towards his home. “Havarti, swiss, feta, and would you guess that I found Goudaaaaaaaa.”   
  


Crowley dodges a street pole he nearly swerves into, cackling as he pulls into a parking space.

 

“Christ, you really are drunk,” Aziraphale says, but he’s also smiling. 

 

Smiling is contagious, of course. A usual human ailment. 

 

“Get outta the car, angel. I’ll be up in a minute.” 

 

Crowley’s place had always been too dark for Aziraphale’s liking. The living room is surrounded by plants, black walls and flooring, and a single dim candle chandelier swinging above them. But, when he walks into the living room, he’s surprised to see it completely stripped. There’s even a hole in the wall with a measuring tape hanging out of it.

 

“I’m doing renovations,” Crowley explains quickly, rearing up behind him. “Go to the bedroom, the telly’s in there.” 

 

Crowley disappears off towards his kitchen while Aziraphale is left floundering.

 

Bedroom? He’s confused. He could have moved the television into his office. Anyhow, Crowley most likely has a reason. The chairs in his office aren’t comfortable anyway. 

 

Aziraphale has been in Crowley’s bedroom twice. 

 

Once when he was trying to help Aziraphale find his favorite pair of Friday sunglasses. They were important to him because they had small black jewels on the rim. 

 

A second time when he was helping Crowley find a place to put his new succulents. Crowley doesn’t have any windows in his bedroom, and Aziraphale had warned him about what may become of them without the proper sunlight, but Crowley insisted it was possible for them to thrive without it. 

 

Aziraphale had been correct however, because the room seems barren of plants, just a few pine scented candles lining his dressers. The TV is placed on a makeshift coffee table, and Aziraphale startles when Crowley comes rushing in with a cheese plate in hand.

 

“Go on! Turn it on!” He slams the door shut. 

 

They’re huddled together at the end of the bed, the cheese plate in the middle, on the sheets. Aziraphale’s side of cheese is mostly gone, but Crowley is still nibbling away at his own blocks, like a gopher of some sort. Aziraphale finds himself gazing for too long, and turns back to the telly to find the same boring New Years party is still being celebrated.

 

“How long we’ve got?” Crowley asks. 

 

“Two minutes, just about.” 

 

“Humans and their kissing traditions,” Crowley says with a chuckle.

 

Aziraphale goes pale. Surely, he hadn’t heard that right.

 

“Kissing?” He stammers.

 

Nonchalantly, Crowley nods and explains. “Remember the mistletoe?” Aziraphale nods back. Of course he remembers. He’ll never forget it for as long as he lives. For better and for worse. Though something is bothering him about Crowley’s passive tone. 

 

“Well, it’s kinda the same thing. You’re supposed to kiss someone when the new year starts. For good luck and fortune, I guess.”

 

“I see.” 

 

They sit in silence for the next minute or so, and Crowley begins counting down from ten in a whisper. Aziraphale’s breaths are coming in unsteady, and it hitches when Crowley reaches five. 

 

_ Four. _

 

Aziraphale’s hands tighten into fists around his knees. 

 

_ Three.  _

 

Aziraphale turns his body slightly to look at the television’s gleam in Crowley’s eyes. 

 

_ Two.  _

 

Aziraphale’s hands twitch forward.

 

_ One. _

 

Aziraphale takes Crowley’s chin and turns his head around, laying a soft kiss on his lips, letting himself linger before pulling away, and awkwardly patting Crowley’s knee.

  
“For good luck,” he stutters.

 

Crowley is staring at him, dumbfounded. Aziraphale is looking anywhere but his face, so he can’t tell if Crowley is beginning to smile, but he feels it.

 

“For good luck,” Crowley repeats.

 

This time Crowley doesn’t walk away, and Aziraphale doesn’t feel confused and paralyzed. It had been the second time they kissed that Aziraphale finally realized how hot Crowley’s lips are, similar to pressing your lips to a cup of tea filled with water straight from the kettle. 

 

* * *

 

Hours after Armageddon had been avoided.

 

“You can stay at my place, if you like.” 

 

Aziraphale’s eyes widen, and he turns to face Crowley who is staring at him so sincerely that if he didn’t know better, he’d assume was another man entirely. 

 

What he’s implying is, Aziraphale can feel safe with him. He won’t have to run and hide from him like he does with Heaven and its judgemental angels. Crowley is offering him a once in a lifetime generosity, only if he wants it. He’s giving him that choice. 

 

Choices. Aziraphale has to think about his future too, as much as he wants to run and jump at the opportunity. As much as he wanted to run and jump towards Alpha Centauri with Crowley.

 

“I-I don’t think my side would like that,” Aziraphale replies unsteadily.

 

He knows he sounds unconvinced himself, Crowley can see it in his face.

 

“You don’t have a side anymore,” Crowley reminds. 

 

Aziraphale’s heart drops. He’s right. 

 

“Neither of us do,” he continues. “We’re on our own side. Like Agnes said, we’re going to have to choose our faces wisely.” 

 

Faces. Choose our faces. Aziraphale can’t pinpoint that prophecy. What it means beyond face value. He knows there has to be a hidden meaning, but before he can ponder more, Crowley is waving a bus down, and they’re filing into a small seats a few rows back. 

 

Before he knows it, they’re back at Crowley’s place, and he’s pouring them drinks with the alcohol he keeps on his office desk. 

 

“No more use for this paperwork, I suppose.” Crowley plops a file into a drawer, and shuts it. He hands Aziraphale a brandy, and sips at his own vodka.

 

“Not a proper drink for averting the end of the world,” Aziraphale observes with a wary smile.

 

“Maybe not, but I know what you like.” Crowley winks, something that used to unnerve the angel to no end. Unnerve him maybe with how much he enjoyed seeing it.

 

Aziraphale clears his throat. 

 

“What do you think will happen to us?” 

 

“ _ Execution! _ ” Crowley bellows dramatically, raising his glass up high.

 

“Crowley, I’m serious. You’re likely correct, and what are we supposed to do then? Take it?”

 

Crowley cocks his head to the side. “Are you saying we should fight?”

 

“No!” Aziraphale squeaks. “No, no fighting. But, there has to be some way to avoid this fate.”

 

“Unless you’re planning on winning a court case with the high council, we’re screwed. You know both Heaven and Hell never care about a fair trial.”

 

“No, but what if...we could survive our executions?” It all suddenly clicks in Aziraphale’s head, and Agnes’ prophecy falls into place. “Crowley, I’ve figured it out.”

 

“No one is immune to complete annihilation, we’re all just waiting for our turn in the hot seat. Angels, and demons alike, I’m afraid.” 

 

Aziraphale purses his lips, takes a few steps forward, and slaps Crowley’s cheek lightly.

 

“Ow!”   
  


“Don’t accept defeat so easily. We’re going to get through this,” Aziraphale takes a deep breath, steadying himself, “together.”

 

This is all the ammunition Crowley needs. 

 

“What’s the plan, angel?” He asks.

 

Aziraphale tells him about switching bodies, and he’s instantly on board. They work well together this way. They’re good at planning and executing a plan perfectly. Perhaps they shouldn’t be, two different kinds of beings originally working on opposite sides. But they’re own their own side now, and maybe they’ve been on their own side all along. 

 

Later that night, when it’s too late to keep staying up chatting, they stare at one another in wonder. Crowley had stayed over Aziraphale’s flat before above the bookshop before, but Aziraphale had never stayed at Crowley’s. And unlike Aziraphale’s place, Crowley does not own a couch.

 

“I could, um, sleep on the floor!” Aziraphale offers sheepishly. “If you could spare a few blankets.”

 

“No!” Crowley grumbles, running a hand through his hair. “Just come to my bed, it’s fine.”

 

“What?” Aziraphale asks, voice weak. “Yo-Your bed?” 

 

“You’ve known me for over six thousand years, angel. Surely, you know I won’t bite you or anything.” Crowley bares his teeth for show, but it’s not that Aziraphale’s worried about.

 

He’ll never be able to stop his mind from jumping to what his side may think of any current situation. An angel and a demon sleeping in the same bed together. Absurd and uncouth, especially if  _ things  _ were to occur. He’d be the laughingstock of Heaven. 

 

He shakes the thought away. They don’t matter anymore.

 

Crowley matters. In a way, he always has. If Crowley is okay with this, he will be too.

 

Aziraphale nods curtly, and Crowley leads him to the bedroom. It’s cozier than it had been New Year’s Eve in 1956. The walls are a dull pink, perhaps the red faded from all those decades past. The sheets of his bed are black silk, and the pillow cases as well. Aziraphale smiles. Back at his flat, he owns white silk sheets. 

 

“I’ve got extra pajamas you can borrow.”

 

Aziraphale chokes up. 

 

“Right.”

 

Crowley smiles and shakes his head. “Not going  _ too fast _ for you again, am I?” 

 

This shuts Aziraphale up, and they change into pajamas, climbing into the rather big bed. It’s no issue at all moving around and getting comfortable. He’d have thought it would be cramped. He turns on his right side and startles when Crowley’s yellow eyes are staring back at him.

 

“I forget they glow like that once in a while,” He says with a nervous chuckle.

 

“Want me to put on a sleeping mask?”

 

“No! I like them.”

 

Crowley narrows his gaze. “You like them?”

 

“Of course I do,” Aziraphale croons, full of honesty. “They’re lovely. I’ve always thought so.” 

 

It’s rare to see Crowley appear bashful, but he’s glancing off into the dark corners of his room, biting his lip ever so slightly. 

 

“Well, goodnight,” Aziraphale says.

 

“Goodnight,” Crowley answers.

 

Except, they don’t close their eyes. They stare at each other on their sides. The only sound between them is Aziraphale’s uneven breathing, and Crowley’s twitching toes. 

 

“I like your eyes too,” Crowley blurts out.

 

Aziraphale flushes. “Oh, mine are nothing special. Nothing like Gabriel – ”

 

“Gabriel’s a cock.”

 

They stare back at each other again, before Aziraphale lets out a sea of chuckles, Crowley following suit with signature barks of his own. 

 

When the laughter dies down, Aziraphale becomes strikingly aware that they’re closer to each other than any normal host and guest should be on a bed of this size. But, perhaps  _ just  _ close enough for an angel and demon who have fraternized for so long they missed the part where they became friends. And the part where they fell in love.

 

Like clockwork, both move forward at the same time, and the silence becomes heavy white noise that rings in Aziraphale ears. They kiss, together, a perfect harmony. This time it’s not a tradition, but something so inevitable it could no longer be ineffable. 

**Author's Note:**

> this is my first good omens fic, that i started literally at three am yesterday and finished today. i just finished the series and i hold a lot of softness for them even though i never intended to love another pairing like this. i love them. they deserve everything. thanks for reading!


End file.
